A Theory of Impossibility
by shiny happy fits of rage
Summary: "What do you want, Crock?" he mutters. Her smile grows at how his eyes are indeed fixated on what's inside the trophy case. For the first time in sixteen months, a headline about West the Best, home town hero, the Kid Flash, the best athlete to ever walk Gotham Academy's hallowed halls isnt leering down at her. Artemis grins. "Oh, nothing, just came to gloat." [an au]


i did not have the time nor the intention to write something seven thousand words long but oops! here it is! it may be slightly messy and a mess idk but i hope you all enjoy it, and as usual if you want more content please check my tumblr and AO3!

* * *

Artemis finds him exactly where she expects: standing in front of Gotham Academy's trophy case, his arms crossed petulantly, a reluctant look of admiration on his face. She comes to stand next to him, clasping her hands and smirking up at him. "Checking out the new display?"

He just barely glances down at her – it's little more than a twitch. "What do you want, Crock?" he mutters. Her smile grows at how his eyes are indeed fixated on what's inside the trophy case. Behind the glass, a black-and-white photo of her narrowed her eyes at them, holding a soccer ball. Above her, the headline from Gotham Academy Herald proclaims _TEAM CAPTAIN BRINGS GAWS TO CHAMPIONSHIPS; FIRST TIME IN SEVENTY-THREE YEARS_. Artemis had read the headline a hundred times. It must be printed inside her eyelids at this point. Still, reading it now fills her with a triumphant buoyancy that almost rivals the moment when she actually scored the deciding goal in last week's game.

It also helps that, for the first time in months, a headline about West the Best, home town hero, the Kid Flash, the best athlete to ever walk Gotham Academy's hallowed halls, isn't leering down at her. Instead, standing next to her is merely Wally West, looking like he can't decide whether to yell or cry. Artemis is positively _glowing_.

"Oh nothing," says Artemis carelessly. "I just came to gloat."

He shoots her a withering look. "It's good to see your fifteen minutes of fame hasn't gone at all to your head."

She raises an eyebrow, turning to face him directly. "Are you for real? You really think I'm gonna let this die quietly? You were Athlete of the Month for sixteen months straight, in case you didn't keep track _which you did_. And that wasn't even a real achievement, basically. I lead the women's soccer team to victory for the first time since Harry S. _Truman_ was president."

"Technically, F.D.R.," he says, under his breath.

"Get used to it, West," she continues, ignoring him, too high on a speech she'd dreamed of giving. "You're over."

* * *

"You're _over_?" snorts Zatanna. Her shirt is halfway off her body, one hand still pulling the collar over her chin, the other scrambling for her cell phone she'd thrown in the locker. "You do realize it's a display case in a prep school, right, and not like, Normandy 1944?"

Artemis doesn't respond immediately. She's frowning at the line-up Coach Lance had handed to as she walked into the locker rooms. She wants Morse on offense? Sandsmark stuck back by the goal? And why the hell is Beecher not staying in the goal the whole game? Pulling out a pen, she begins to make notes along the margin.

Something hits her in the forehead "Jesus -!" The tube of deodorant clatters against the bench. Zatanna is staring at her, fully dressed now in her practice jersey.

"No offense," says Zatanna, in a tone that fully implies offense is coming up, "but you are starting to veer slightly a lot towards crazy town."

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Artemis. She puts down the clipboard to scrape her hair into a ponytail.

Except, she does slightly a little know what Zatanna is alluding to. She suspects it has something to do with incredibly rigorous practice sessions they'd had as of late, the somewhat disparaging remarks she'd publicly made about some of the men's soccer players, and the _impassioned_ speech she gave her team right before their last game that had little to do with the game itself and much more to do with knocking those GAMS (Gotham Academy Men's Soccer) bastards off their high horses. But that isn't anything that she considers to be particularly noteworthy or concerning; GAMS and GAWS (Gotham Academy Women's Soccer) have been rivals since the inception of Gotham Academy. She just happens to be more efficient at kicking their asses, and people were starting to notice the shifting winds.

"You know, it's totally sexist," she remarks. "They have been such _asses_ to us for literal decades, and then for once, we don't have coaching that is _entirely_ shit or a max budget of three quarters, and suddenly _I'm_ the one who's being 'a terror' and 'totally inappropriate'."

"You put bleach in their laundry."

"Because they –" She catches herself, straightening her spine. "You can't prove that."

Zatanna throws her arms into the air, exasperated. "Jesus Christ, Artemis, I'm not the prosecution here. I'm just _saying_ that some of the girls think you're being –"

"A bitch?" she guesses lazily, opening her locker to shove her stuff into.

"- _intense_ ," finishes Zatanna. She shrugs. "But I mean – yeah. Also, a bitch."

Wally West materializes in front of her, holding a newspaper up front of her face. " _GAWS face devastating loss against Trenton Tornados?"_ he reads in a mockingly upset voice. He clutches his chest. "Oh, how will we go on with this completely shocking and not at all totally expected result? I don't know what I'd do if _I_ were you, Crock, because I know _personally_ I'm not used to losing –"

She slams her locker shut, and Wally's sneer dissipates. "I can live with that," she says. It's not an exaggeration.

* * *

There are a few moments during practice when everything around her becomes noise.

For example, when she's running down the field, and she has the ball, that the GAMS vs GAWS rivalry fades into the background, and her unwritten English paper fades into the background, and the consistent anxiety that hardens in her stomach every time she hears the word _college_ fades into the background. It's just her and her cleats, her heartbeat swelling in her throat, the ball between her feet; it's the wind whipping past her ears and the sweat that drips down the back of her shirt and the heaving of her chest. She can hear her teammates yelling behind her, and of course part of her is listening for commands, for someone to be open, but most of her is moving on instinct now, and in slow motion.

When Coach claps her on the shoulder after practice and praises her six goals she scored during the scrimmage, Artemis nod, only vaguely registering the words (they'll take hold of her later, at the end of the day, and she'll fall asleep to her coach's reassurances).

This is what it's about, she thinks to herself, a joyous sort of pride rushing through her. The only thing that dampens it is the figure sitting in the stands, his shock of red hair standing out the blue sky. She frowns.

* * *

Artemis does her best to ignore him in calculus the next day, but unfortunately her talents do not include _not sticking her damn nose where she shouldn't_. "Why were you at practice yesterday?" The words are out of her mouth before she's even fully in her desk.

Wally doesn't look up at her, frantically scribbling something on homework assignment they'd received yesterday. "I was just observing," he says, not really paying attention. This lack of interest on his part is almost _more_ annoying than when he refuses to shut up, following her in the hall as he talks about something inane. She resists the urge to smack him.

"Observing what?" she asks stiffly.

Mr. Smith comes around to collect their homework, accompanied by his half-hearted attempts to get them to be quiet, and finally then Wally looks up at her. "What?"

"What were you doing at our practice? Looking for weaknesses?" she demands. "I'll have you know we have none. Ike Johnson, sportswriter at the Gotham Gazette, wrote last week that 'the Gotham Academy Women's Soccer team has assembled potentially the strongest line-up in –"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Artemis," he hisses. Mr. Smith has begun lecturing, and as usual really doesn't care who is listening and who isn't. Wally leans in. "Are you for real? I just went to see what you guys played like, considering this is the first year your team hasn't been complete shit. Sue me." He reconsiders. "Wait, actually, I take that back, because you seem like the type of person to take that literally."

The answer is less satisfying that Artemis hoped it would be. She fidgets for several moments, considering actually listening to the lecture for once, then gives up, turning back to Wally. "And?"

"And what?"

" _And_ , what did you think?" she draws every word out like he's stupid (which of course, he is), shaking her head disbelievingly at him. If she stops to think about it, it's the first question she'd asked him likely ever that isn't goading him on to say something idiotic.

He recognizes it as well, and pauses, frowning at the notebook open on his desk (like her, he hasn't written a thing beyond the date in the top right margin). "You're – well, you guys are good," he says eventually.

She smiles smugly. "Yeah, I kn –"

"But you're not great."

Artemis bristles. She feels her knuckles whiten around the pencil she's holding purely for show. "Excuse me?"

He glances back up at her, and is clearly taken aback by half-snarl that is already on her face. "Are you even capable of not going into psychopath mode every five minutes?" he snaps. "Calm the fuck down, I'm actually trying to help you."

But Artemis has already fallen way too far down the rabbit hole that is her ability to escalate any situation tenfold before the other party even speaks. The words _good, not great_ echo ominously in her mind, and she can see her father, scowling at her from the sidelines. Any interest in what Wally had to say has disappeared. "We don't _need_ help, in case you haven't been keeping score. We have a 10-0 record this season, and if we keep that up, we will be the only team since 1958 to have a completely undefeated season, something even your precious GAMS haven't accomplished, and won't this season, as your rather horrifying loss at Wildwood showcases. So, I'd make sure my glass house is in order before I start throwing stones."

"Oh, come _on_ , Artemis –"

"Hey, West? Suck my actual dick."

They don't speak for the rest of class.

* * *

Artemis dials the number three times before she actually presses the dial button. The first time, she puts the phone down before she's punched the last digit in, reasoning that her mother had likely already called anyway, so it would be a little aggressive to call twice. The second time, she's unnerved by the thought that by calling, she risks jinxing the whole season, and that it just was not worth it to jeopardize potentially making history

Finally, the third time, after admitting to herself that both of the aforementioned conclusions were nothing more than lousy excuses, she dials the entire phone number and presses the dial button. Her foot taps against the grate of the fire escape as she listens to it ringing.

Just when she thinks, with a confusing surge of both disappointment and relief, that no one is going to answer, the phone clicks and the ringing is replaced by someone breathing. For a moment, the person at the other end says nothing, and Artemis is suddenly overcome by panic at the thought that maybe she'd called a wrong number, before finally, she hears, "Well, for God's sake what do you want, Artemis, I can't stick around all day."

"Jade," she exhales. "Hi."

"If that's why you're calling me, then I –"

"No, no," she says quickly, stumbling over her own words. "It isn't. I just wanted to tell you – well, maybe Mom called you, I'm not sure, but – my team made it to the championships."

Silence. Artemis swallows and tries again. "My soccer team –"

"Yes, your soccer team," interrupts Jade. She nods, although she knows her sister can't see her. At least, she thinks she's knows that – Jade's annual postcards were as unrevealing as they were creepy, so while they usually assumed that Jade was living in some bunker in Peru, she just as easily could be across the street, watching her through the blinds. Last year's postcard had been merely a photo of roadkill. On the back, Jade had scrawled, _Merry X-mas!_ Their mother had still hung it on the fridge. "Right. I remember that now. Congratulations."

"Thanks," says Artemis weakly. This conversation – which she had plotted for almost a week now – is not going in the direction she hoped, but rather in the direction she expected. Gathering her nerve, she continues. "Anyway, it's like – it's sort of a big deal, you know, because GAWS never –"

"What the _hell_ is –"

"Gotham Academy Women's Soccer," she explains quickly, unwilling to let herself be derailed. "We haven't made it to the championships in, like, seventy years. So it's big. And I get two free tickets, for family members so I – well, one of them's for Mom, obviously, but I – do you want me to save one for you? Or should I…." she trails off. She doesn't really have an alternative option.

Once again, the sound of silence, except it's so, so loud. Artemis had no idea that measured breathing, the muffled sound of television could be so deafening. After an eternity, Jade breathes in.

"No offense, little sister." Artemis stops listening. It's interesting how suddenly she cares so little what Jade has to say. When her sister's explanation ends, Artemis only notices because the phone is once again just breathing, just background noise.

She nods. "Okay," she says. She hangs up.

* * *

She runs the next practice, as is custom every Wednesday. While Coach Lance is who knows where, probably making out with Mr. Queen the gym teacher in the janitor's closet, Artemis yells into the megaphone on the sidelines, jogging up and down the field as she watches her team run. Her voice is hoarse by four o'clock, and even she's sweating.

Maybe she's been a little hard. The thought occurs to her when she gathers the team for a final few words before they shower up. Most of them are too exhausted to glare, but Gordon and Cain do exchange dirty looks when she tells them that she's expecting more of them. Even Zatanna looks off to the side of her, her shoulders heaving.

But someone _has_ to be the hard-ass, she reasons as she watches them leave. They're going to hate whoever is pushing them, because that's just how things work. She can't let a couple of bitter whispers, a little bit of groaning distract her from the goal. They just have five more practices, including this one, before the Game (it was slowly becoming capital in her mind).

They can survive five practices.

* * *

Artemis almost doesn't get out of the car when she arrives at the field, even though she'd woken up at six forty-five on a Saturday, moving through her apartment at slow-motion, barely touching anything, in case the scrape of a chair on the linoleum somehow woke her mother. Taking a swig of her coffee (way too milk, not enough sugar) as she pulls into her usual parking spot, she feels it sour inside her throat as she gets closer to the field. She can't make out his features but she can recognize the lanky form of Wally West, scoring goal after goal on an empty net.

For a few minutes, she considers stewing in her car until he leaves, or possibly even driving away – she knows no one will be at the Gotham North field, because neither of their soccer teams have won a game in actual years – but driving away would be losing, and anyway, she feels oddly sort of compelled to watch him play. Grabbing her duffle bag and her water, she climbs out of the car, slamming the door closed with her hip.

Wally is shooting on the far goal, so he doesn't see her as she approaches. Stopping by the other goal, chewing on her lip, she watches as he kicks another perfect shot, the ball sailing through the air and hitting the back of the net with a clear _wumph_. He _is_ good, she finds herself thinking, begrudgingly. It shouldn't be such a shocking revelation – you can't make it two yards through G.A. without hearing his name, floating from the lips of some twitchy, starstruck freshman – and yet it takes her by surprise.

Jogging back from the goal, the ball in his hands, Wally slows down as he catches sight of her, stopping in the center circle. Unsure of what to do, Artemis raises her hand in a ghostly wave. It feels wrong to be on the attack right then, right there. They were bitter enemies and she would have fought him tooth-and-nail, any time of day anywhere else, but the field is the one thing in the world they share, and it feels sacrilegious not to respect that. He returns the gesture.

"Didn't know you practiced on Saturday mornings," he calls to her. "Usually no one else is ever here this early." There is no malice in his words; he's nothing other than perfectly congenial.

She shrugs. "Well, you know. I just had to see _the Kid Flash_ in action," she says, allowing herself to smirk just a little. Dumping her stuff at the edge of the field, she makes her way towards him.

He rolls his eyes at her as she gets nearer. "Okay, I hear your mocking tone and I respect it," he says, "but the Kid Flash is a bomb-ass nickname. Admit it."

Artemis snorts. She'd been at the game where he'd originally earned the nickname, back in eighth grade. Their middle school team colors had been yellow and black, and he really had looked like a lightning bolt, zipping down the field with the ball, scoring one of the quickest goals she had ever seen still to that day. "Sure, Jan."

A moment of stillness. Neither of them is really sure what to say; truces aren't exactly common for them, and the topics of conversation they have at their disposal are somewhat limited. Gotham is still waking up, and the whole world feels as though it must be quiet. Even the traffic is a far away, muffled sound that can't compete with the gentle whispering of the trees, or the wind, or the birds. It's oddly peaceful.

Eventually, Wally breaks the silence. "You know, I wasn't trying to be a dick in calc the other day." He tosses her the ball, and she catches it reflexively, her fingers splayed out on either side of it. "For once."

Artemis nods vaguely. She feels a spasm of discomfort, because if her memory serves her right, she was the one who had sort of somewhat gone into bitch attack mode, and if anyone should be awkwardly dancing around an apology it's probably her. "Yeah, uh – same. You know, how it is. I've been – sort of on edge, I guess. Sort of stressed."

"I hadn't noticed," says Wally wryly. She swallows, a twinge of embarrassment burning her cheeks, and twirls the ball between her fingers, watching the clean, black and white shapes merge into a mess of grey. "I was being honest, you know. I was really trying to help."

His face seems earnest enough, but she can't stifle the irritation bubbling inside of her. Rationally, she knows it's an aftereffect of being in charge, and constantly receiving unsolicited, well-intentioned advice, and she knows, like the rest of them, Wally probably isn't trying to wear her down to dust, but still. She throws the ball back at him, and thankfully his reflexes are just as good as hers, because he manages to catch it before it him square in the stomach.

"Great," she says icily. "Because I need _so_ much help."

He looks genuinely confused. "I'm not –" He shakes his head. "Look, I'm not attacking you, okay? I'm just – look, you remember Harper? Roy Harper?"

She raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Yeah, of course. GAMS team captain our freshman year, won the championship, went pro. He was amazing." She can remember watching him play, all grace and utter precision, as a trembling fourteen year old and wondering if she could ever possibly achieve that level of skill.

"Yeah, well." Wally exhales, running a hand through his hair, balancing the ball on one hand. "He was a huge asshole. Just, such a dick during practice. Was always up our asses about the _tiniest_ things. I hated soccer freshman year, I just hated going. He was just so harsh."

She blinks, and then her jaw clenches as she suddenly realizes what he was saying. "Ah. And you're saying I'm him," she whispers.

"No, no!" He drops the ball as he reaches out to her in a panic. He closes his eyes, wincing. "Well, sort of. God. Sorry. I just – look, I think some part of him probably remembered that he, you know, _liked_ soccer. But it was so buried under this, like, intense fear that he would let us down, you know? Like, everything was riding on that championship. And - look, you guys have the talent, there is no question, okay? You especially. Like, you're clearly the best player on the team, no question about it. Probably one of the best players in GAWS history, maybe in Gotham History, period. According to the Gazette, anyway."

She wonders if she'd heard him correctly. The bitter response she'd already prepared dissolves on her tongue, like cotton candy. "You – you read –"

"I'm not illiterate, okay," he snaps. An odd red color is already pooling in his cheeks. "Yes, I read it. And I agree, okay? And I know you _know_ you're good, but I think… I think your team has forgotten how much you all love soccer." She takes a sharp breath, and Wally rushes on, still rambling. "I'm not trying to – look, if you forgot why you're doing this, then it's not worth it you know? And I think it'd just, I don't know, be really sad if you forgot that. Because I think you love it, a lot. As much as I do. Maybe more."

It's quiet again. Artemis feels sort of stunned, sort of breathless, like everything in the world has just come to a sudden standstill. It's the first time that they have acknowledged the true bond they share, the concept that of all the people at their school, of all the people they know in the world, it's the two of them that have this intense, desperate passion that tugs at them, that will not quit. Wally shoves his hand into his pockets and refuses to look her in the eye.

Eventually, she clears her throat, searching for the right words. "Oh," she says intelligently, her voice garbled and raw. "I didn't – do you –"

"Yeah, don't ask me any questions because I think I've reached today's quota of 'Embarrassing Things To Reveal That I Definitely Shouldn't Have' _,_ so" he mutters, kicking at the turf.

She laughs, a little nervously. "No, not –" She takes a breath. "Uh. Do you want – can I shoot on you, for a bit? Just for practice. We can switch off."

He's caught off guard, and for a minute she's sure he's going to apologize and turn her down, and she'll retreat to her car, and this interaction will start to feel less like an actual event that happened, and more like a weird fever dream.

Finally, he nods. She is unable to not smile.

* * *

Artemis doesn't get back to her apartment until well after the sun has set. She considers sneaking in through the fire escape, and avoiding any questions from her mother, because they're sure to all be accompanied by a poorly hidden smile that makes her insides turn, but she decides against it in the end. She walks up the five flights of stairs, shoving her key in the door and turning the lock.

Her mother is folding clothes, watching the news in the family room. "Artemis!" she exclaims when she sees her enter, turning her wheelchair immediately to face her. "Where were you? I haven't seen you all day."

Artemis smiles, almost awkwardly, kicking off her boots and watching them hit the bookshelf by the door. "Hi, Mom," she says. She leans over and gives her mom a rushed kiss on the cheek. "Sorry, I forgot to call."

"You could've _iMessaged_ ," says her mother, doing that thing where she pronounces any technology related term like it's a rarely heard word from a foreign language. "What were you doing?"

Artemis doesn't acknowledge her immediately, dropping her bag off on the table and heading for the fridge. She opens it, examining with a critical eye the Tupperware containers and boxes of take-out "Uh, you know," she says vaguely. "Practicing."

"By yourself? The whole day?" The skeptical edge in her mother's tone is unmistakable.

"Uh… no." She grabs the box of rice – she knows for a fact that one's not too old, at least – and some leftover salad. Pulling a plate down from the cabinet, she spoons herself a generous portion of both. "One of the GAMS players was there –"

"What is –"

"Gotham Academy Men's Soccer. So yeah, one of them was there, and we scrimmaged. And you know, afterwards we went to get coffee, because we were sort of hungry, and… yeah, I don't know." Setting her plate down on the kitchen table, she looks up to see a dumbfounded expression on her mother's face. She fidgets uncomfortably.

"I thought you hated those soccer boys," she says carefully, as if she's convinced Artemis might combust at any moment. "Don't you?"

Artemis purses her lips, doing her best attempt at a casual, nonplussed shrug (it comes off as more of a twitch). "I don't know. It's… I don't know. They're not that bad. It was fine. I don't know."

Her mother narrows her eyes at her, and Artemis groans at the knowing smile on her face. "Oh, _don't_ you?"

"Ugh, _gross_ , Mom. Stop it." The idea of having to convince her mother that she isn't romantically interested in Wally West is almost comical, because that situation arising is by all accounts statistically impossible. And yet here she is, doing her best to swallow down a confusing, exhilarating smile.

It feels like the impossible is happening a lot lately.

* * *

Her theory of impossibility is reinforced later that week, when she walks into the locker room on Wednesday for practice, a clipboard in her hand and a sack of soccer balls slung over her shoulder like a she's a weird Olympia Sports-esque Santa Claus, to find Megan Morse, her top defenseman, shoved against the lockers, lip-locked with a boy in a GAMS jersey. Artemis drops the bag, so utterly unprepared for the sight in front of her. They hit the ground with a _thunk_ , a few balls escaping and rolling across the floor.

At the sound, Megan gasps, shoving the boy away. It's Conner Kent, she realizes. He may be one of the most aggressive players on GAMS, the record-holder for greatest amount of penalties in a single season, but now he looks positively terrified, his hands awkwardly hanging by his hands. There's a smudge of lipstick on his upper lip.

"We weren't making out," says Megan determinedly. She sounds very convinced. Conner nods helpfully.

Artemis nods, still somewhat dazed. "Okay," she says.

For a few moments, none of them say anything. Conner is the first to come back to life, looking over his shoulder, responding to someone they can't hear calling him. "Uh – you know what – I have, uh. Yeah." Throwing an apologetic look at Megan, he hurries past Artemis. She'd never seen such a large man positively _scuttle_.

The moment he's gone, Megan rushes at her, words flying out of her mouth at a faster speed than Artemis can really process. "I'm so sorry, Artemis, I know we hate them and all and we're supposed to be focused on the game and I _promise_ you, I have been practicing, like, _so_ much, but Conner has been so nice lately and we've been playing together a lot, and he's so sweet and please don't be mad at me, and –"

"Uh – stop," says Artemis, holding a hand out. She can feel the beginnings of a headache forming in her temple. More than that, there's an uncomfortable hard knot forming in her stomach, triggered by the genuine terror in Megan's eyes. "You shouldn't - don't apologize to me for who you date. That's, that's your choice, you know?"

Megan steps back, frowning at her. "Are you feeling all right, Artemis?"

She winces. That's telling. "Yikes, okay. Look, I really don't care, Megan, the slightest bit at all who you date, or hook up with, or whatever."

"But he's GAMS –"

"And I've been a dick lately," finishes Artemis grimly. Megan stares at her, wide-eyed. She sighs. "Just – just get ready for practice, okay? I'll see you out on the field."

Megan nods eagerly. "I will be ready _so fast_ , Artemis, you will not even believe it." She practically _skips_ away, before hurrying back and throwing her arms around her in a lopsided hug, squealing a little. "Thank you!"

Artemis stays where she stands, watching Megan disappear. Well, she thinks. More impossible things have happened. She remembers yesterday. Wally showing up at her apartment with a coffee. "Up for scrimmage?" he'd asked, grinning.

Definitely impossible.

* * *

She looks out across her team, her girls, their arms crossed, chewing on their lips, staring at her apprehensively. Practice hasn't even started and she can see the exhaustion in their arms, the tension in their shoulders. She has the agenda for the day on her clipboard – drills, scrimmage, more drills – but for some reason, she can't make the words come out. Zatanna, meeting her eye, smiles encouragingly

Artemis glances back down at the clipboard. _TWO DAYS, EIGHTEEN HOURS UNTIL THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME_ , she'd scrawled across the top in sharpie, her handwriting jagged and tense.

"What the hell," she whispers. She tosses the clipboard behind her.

If there isn't an audible gasp, there's at the very least a sudden, collective _sucking in_ of air through teeth. Artemis smiles sheepishly. "Do you guys just want to get ice cream today?"

* * *

"Who do you see?"

The question, accompanied by heavy breathing, comes as a bit of a surprise. Artemis looks up from the ball she's shoving into her duffle bag, trying desperately to close the zipper around it, at Wally, squinting to block out the sun shining from behind his head. This is the fourth time they've practiced together. It's Thursday afternoon. In a day and a half, the future will be decided. "Sorry?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. "Like – do you… every time I play, even if he's not there, I always see my uncle, on the sidelines, just watching me." She knows who he's talking about. Barry Allen had won the gold medal back in the '96 Olympic games. "Even if he's not there. It's like… every game I play, is in a way, for him, trying to impress him. Does that make sense?"

It's another piece of information that doesn't quite fit into the schema she has constructed over the years of Wally West, another reminder that there's something they share between them. She nods, looking out across the field, at the empty bleachers. She's seven years old, and she just lost her chance to take the winning shot, and all there is in the world a hardened jaw, eyes that won't meet her own.

"I see my father," she whispers.

He could've pried further, but he seems to understand. She finally gets the damn ball into her bag, and he holds a hand out to her. She takes it, and lets him help her to her feet.

Wally had picked her up from her apartment that day, and, after they stop for coffee, her drops her off, pulling up in front of the front steps as the sun sets, the last rays of light hitting the brick. He parks the car and turns off the ignition, but Artemis finds herself strangely unwilling to move. Maybe it has something to do with her mother, who is surely waiting by the window, watching for her to get out of his car, waiting to interrogate her the second she steps foot in the apartment.

Not to mention the ticket in her coat pocket that is burning her sides, branding her rips. She shifts in the front seat, and eventually, stumbling over the words, says, "Hey, Wally –"

"Yes?" he says, too quickly. She glances over at him, and wishes she hadn't, because the look on his face is oddly unnerving. She looks back out at the street.

Finding her voice again, she continues on, apologizing before she's even said really anything. "Okay, um – I'm sorry if this is – you know, weird, or whatever, but – I have a spare ticket, to the championship match, because I'm on the team, so I get two free tickets, obviously, and you know, it's just me and my mom, so –" She pulls the ticket out of her pocket and, without really looking at him, shoves the ticket at him. "Just – I hope you come, you know." She clears her throat. "Because, you know, I really want to see your face when I totally crush your team's record."

He doesn't say anything. Artemis works up her nerve and looks at him. He's smiling.

"Yeah," he says. He shakes his head, dislodging – _something_. "Yeah, I'd love to. You know, be there. Um."

"Oh, okay. Cool."

"Yeah."

Before she is able to fully register her inhibitions, Artemis darts to press her lips quickly to his check, before grabbing her bag, and hurrying out of the car, doing her best to keep her body completely straight as she heads for cover.

She breaks, just a little at the end though, and as she opens the front door, she glances back. His car is still there, motionless. He has a hand to his cheek. She smiles.

* * *

Today's the day.

It's her first thought when she wakes up on the dreaded Saturday, her eyes not even open. She tenses her limbs and does her best to relax them, but it doesn't quite work. She's still stiff, frozen under her blankets. Judgement day.

For a few moments, Artemis considers going back to sleep and never waking up, never having to answer the question of whether or not she is capable of doing the impossible.

But she remembers her team, and she sighs, and the blood starts to rush back into her body as she climbs out of bed.

* * *

The locker room is somber, every movement magnified by the otherwise lack of sound in the room. No one looks at any of the others. Even Zatanna, who is usually chipper even in the worst of situations, has her headphones in and is staring at a predetermined point on the wall.

Artemis knows she has to make a speech, but she feels somewhat – somewhat inadequate. She remembers the team captain last year, and how the smile on her face never wavered, not even in the face of tremendous loss, and how her words were calm and cool and collected. Artemis's leg won't stop shaking and she really feels as though she might throw up at the first whistle and the sight of someone's ball, resting against the wall, makes her tongue go dry –

 _Stop it_. She curls her hands into fists, then loosens them. She remembers the smell of the turf, the wind in her hair, the control she has over the ball. _You love this game_.

She stands up and hops onto the bench in the middle of the locker room. The girls look up at her. "Hey," she says, suddenly shy. "Hey. Uh. Okay." Zatanna, pulling her headphones out of her ears, gives her a half-wave. She grins.

Turning as she talks so she can see all of them, she begins to speak. "Okay, so I – I know I've been sort, of. Well, crazy, lately." A couple people chuckle, a bit nervously, at her admission. "Like, sort of nuts. And I just wanted to say – I'm sorry. Because I don't want you to hate this game, or hate coming to practice, or anything. Because – we _love_ soccer. We love it. That's why we're here, right?"

"We would've _had_ to love it to put up with those drills," says Karen Beecher, smirking. Artemis laughs, genuinely, and the tension dissipates from the room as other people join in.

"Yeah, well – yes, you're right. So, yeah – you should have fun today. And also – you shouldn't forget that you're good. Because we are. Good. Like, this is the most line-up I ever could have asked for. And for a while, I guess I didn't trust us to win, because I had forgotten that. But now, I'm – I'm not afraid, anymore, you know?" She takes a shuddering breath. To her dismay she's on the verge of tears. "Fuck, guys."

Zatanna raises a hand primly. "May I suggest a group hug?"

She laughs, and then cries a little more. "I think a group hug seems appropriate." She hops down from the bench, and there's suddenly people surrounding her on all sides, and for a brief moment, the game that follows just doesn't exist anymore.

* * *

Artemis isn't really aware that they've won until later.

Her entire world, at the moment, consists of the ball that sails from her foot, arching over the goalie's head and into the net. _I scored_ , she thinks distantly. It's only when she's suddenly being swarmed, mere seconds later, someone she recognizes as Zatanna hugging her fiercely, that she glances up at the clock. It's hit zero. The number under _Home_ is twice as high as the one under _Away_.

There's a lot of screaming, a lot of hugging and hand shaking and _good game, good game_. Artemis smiles as she is handed the game ball by Coach Lance, who is beaming, but she still can't properly breathe. The people in the stands rush onto the field, and suddenly there are bodies all around her, swarming her. She embraces her mother and she takes a picture with her aunt and uncle, and she thanks the principal for coming. Her head is still spinning.

At one point, she catches sight of Wally, who is somehow taller than everyone else. He waves to her.

She waves back. Something breaks open.

* * *

"Artemis."

"Jade. I – I thought you weren't coming."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have anything better to do, and you know how Mom is. _Family supporting family_ , or whatever. Had to buy my own ticket, too, because you gave mine away to some _guy_ , too, so you owe me eighteen dollars."

"Oh."

"… you played well, little sis. For real."

"Thanks."

"You know, Dad didn't know what he –"

"Yeah. I know."

* * *

It's strange how Artemis is able to find every single person in the literal world other than the one she's actually searching for. As she shoves through the throng of people, she runs into teachers, old coaches, friends, friends' parents, parents of people she used to be friends with, adults who she can't recognize but seem to know her. She even briefly runs into Bruce Wayne himself, who nods at her and says, "Good game," the suggestion of a smile on his face. And normally she would have cared, but the most she can manage is a nod in return and a hasty response as she pushes past shoulders and arms, popping up on her tip toes every so often to see above the heads and wondering –

"Artemis!" A long arm, waving her frantically over to the edge of the bleachers. With renewed strength, Artemis shoves her way through a final mass of human beings and throws herself at Wally, who wraps his arms around her and lifts her up in hug, her feet dangling in the air.

He puts her down and she half-laughs, half-cries, because she still can't believe that this is a scene that is unfolding in real life, that she has not only just won GAWS the championship but that she is clutching at Wally West's shoulders for support. She smiles up at him and she swears, she _swears_ she must be glowing. "I did it," she whispers. "I fucking did it."

He laughs. "Yeah, yeah you did." He reaches out with one hand to wipe a few tears off her cheek. His thumb lingers under her eye, and she suddenly feels her heart skyrocket into her throat.

"You know," she says, doing her best to remain nonchalant, "considering the fact that I'm probably gonna be Athlete of the Month for, like, literal years, I suggest an end to the GAMS-GAWS rivalry. You know, since I totally have the upper-hand now and it's _totally_ unfair to –"

Wally groans. "God, Crock, do you ever shut up?" He leans in and kiss her, long and soft. It's not a bad way for the season to end.


End file.
